


The question that must never be answered

by QuintessentiallyBritish



Category: Doctor Who, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Doctor Who 50th Anniversary Special Spoilers, Gen, Major Original Character(s), Spoilers, but you don't really need to have read that to understand this, glad you understood that, kind of follows the events of my other fic 'Liberty in Death', mentions of Doctor Who, not exactly a crossover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-27
Updated: 2013-11-27
Packaged: 2018-01-02 20:05:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1061039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuintessentiallyBritish/pseuds/QuintessentiallyBritish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It is a TV show, Sherlock," said Sophie, perhaps a tad too harshly, but then again, he was constantly interrupting her. "A science fiction show that has a blue police box from 1963, which happens to be a time machine—bigger on the inside, yes... and if you say just one more word about how impossible it is, so help me God–"</p>
            </blockquote>





	The question that must never be answered

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: Sherlock Holmes and all knows characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and the contemporary update of Conan Doyle's stories belong to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and BBC, which also holds all the rights for Doctor Who. I am in no way associated with the aforementioned British Broadcasting Corporation. No copyright infringement intended.
> 
> Put together a major case of writer's block and a heavy load of feelings that came from watching the 50th Anniversary and this is what happened.
> 
> Set after the events of Liberty in Death. In case you read it, I haven't abandoned it; I'm working on it, only I'm having a little bit of trouble with it and I apologise for that. You don't really need to have read that to understand this, but I do use my original character so there's that.

**The question that must never be answered**

 

**23 November 2013**

_City of Westminster_

_Baker Street_

 

"Oh, please, that doesn't make any sense!" The grave male voice filled the room; it was laced with indignation and outrage.

     She should have seen this coming. Oh, she really should. The moment her neighbour from across the street came barging into her living room as it was his very own place and settled onto her sofa as if he owned it, she should have imagined he would create a fuss about it. Why? Because he was Sherlock Holmes. And he was ruining something she had been waiting for far too long.

     Shutting her eyes closed, Sophie began to count mentally. _One, two, three..._

     "It is a TV show, Sherlock," she said about ten seconds later or so, her voice showing clear signs of annoyance. "One that I am trying to watch..."

     Turning his head to the woman sitting right next to him, Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows. "Why? Why would you want to watch this nonsense?"

     Tightening the hold on the cushion she was holding against her chest, Sophie sighed. "Because I enjoy it. And it is not nonsense! Stop talking."

     Feeling a bit resentful, Sherlock shifted on his seat, trying to find a more comfortable position on the sofa. But such simple thing proved to be hard to achieve when not ten seconds later, something happened on the TV show Sophie was watching, and yet another cry of complaint escaped his lips.

     "Did she actually say what I think she said?" He barely registered when Sophie inhaled very deeply beside him. "Elizabeth? _The First_?"

     "Sherlock." Her tone was one of warning, and not many people would have dared to ignore it. However, the series of events of Sophie's TV show seemed to have taken most of Sherlock's interest—in the wrong way, the brunette woman would say.

     "Queen Elizabeth, the First? Elizabeth of England?"

     "Yes, I believe that's what they said," she said impatiently. "Repeatedly, as you just did."

     "Impossible," retorted Sherlock as he shifted some more, adjusting his jacket.

     "It is a TV show, Sherlock," said Sophie, perhaps a tad too harshly, but then again, he was constantly interrupting her. "A _science fiction_ show that has a blue police box from 1963, which happens to be a time machine—bigger on the inside, yes—and explores moments, and more often than not, characters of actual history. And if you say just one more word about how impossible it is, so help me God... So, you can either sit and watch _silently_ or get up and get moving. I've waited fifty years for this and you're ruining it for me."

     Whether he was too stunned by her rather heated speech or something else had struck him, Sophie did not know, but he seemed to have gotten the message. Or so she thought for two seconds. That's how long it took for him to open his mouth again.

     "You are thirty," Sherlock pointed out, and he sounded so casual that Sophie grabbed fistfuls of the squared cushion she was holding. Her knuckles turned white so tightly was her grip.

     She averted her eyes from the screen, and when she did so, when blue eyes met dark, Sherlock noticed how aggravated she seemed.

     "I have waited. Fifty years. For this."

     As he had already pointed out, she clearly had not, but he chose not to say anything about that again.

–

Much to Sophie's great surprise, after a few more minutes grunting and shifting and mumbling how incoherent that show was, Sherlock stopped.

     She had endured more than she would have liked of the incessant nuisance while she was trying so hard to watch the show, and when it finally came to an end and when he finally ceased to talk and move and annoy her... she found it odd.

     Straining her ears in order to capture any other sounds that were different than the ones that came from the television, Sophie frowned. There was none. Then, even though she wanted nothing more than to see what was happening on the screen, the brunette cast a sideways glance towards the man next to her.

     Part of her wanted to yell at him, telling him to get his feet off the sofa— _her_ sofa—, but she knew it was to no avail for she had said that over and over again and he still did that... So she didn't. She didn't say a word about his complete disregard of furnishing that wasn't even his; instead, she simply observed him, and judging by what she was seeing, it seemed to Sophie that Sherlock was quite engrossed in the show. His eyebrows would twitch and his eyes would narrow every now and then, his lips would part and she was under the impression that he was about to say something but no sound came from his lips.

     She was truly, greatly surprised. So much that, for a minute or so, she forgot about the special she had programmed the whole of her schedule only to be home that particular Saturday so she wouldn't miss it.

     Blinking a couple of times, Sophie managed to disentangle herself from her thoughts. A small smirk pulled at the corners of her lips as she leaned back and turned her attention back to the screen.

     However, all good things come to an end, and if she believed, even if for only a fleeting moment, that such quietude would last for the next hour, she was so completely wrong.

     Only a few moments came to pass and Sherlock's voice filled the room once more—although not for the last time.

     "There's that box again..."

     "It is called a TARDIS," Sophie explained. "And if you are going to watch it, then get used to it."

     "What's a TARDIS?" Sherlock asked and Sophie would be damned, but he sounded genuinely curious, not sceptic as she would have expected.

     "Time And Relative Dimension in Space."

     There was a moment of silence, in which seconds elapsed, stretched themselves and she did not hear another word from Sherlock. Much like the other time when Sherlock went mute, Sophie glanced at him and noticed he was observing her, as if he was waiting for her to continue with whatever explanations regarding the TARDIS she had.

     A low sigh escaped Sophie's lips, although she didn't feel half as annoyed as she was when he had first started whining. "It's a time machine, like I said before, and a spacecraft in which the Doctor travels. Usually with a companion."

     "The doctor?" Sherlock said, almost as if he was trying saying it for the first time, like he hadn't heard it before. "Doctor who?"

     A face splitting grin appeared on Sophie's face as she looked at the man beside her, though she didn't answer him. And it seemed to bother him for he frowned at the same time he narrowed his eyes a little, just like he did when he was stuck with something particularly challenging. It didn't happen too often, but when it did, Sophie would make sure to remember the look on his face. It should be one of the best parts of having to put up with him.

     "What?" He insisted. He sounded something between desperate and eager to know the answer, which only made Sophie's grin grow bigger. "Why are you smiling?"

     "Because that is the question," said Sophie rather smugly, unable to keep her amusement in check.

     "The question?"

     "No." Her tone went from amused to serious in less than a second. "Not the question. _The_ question. The first question. The oldest question in the universe. The question that must never be answered. Hidden in plain sight."

     It was Sherlock's turn to sigh out of frustration. "Do you suddenly feel the need to talk in riddles or you are doing this simply because you know I dislike them?"

     "A little bit of both, perhaps," Sophie said with a chuckle. "But truthfully, I'm not talking in riddles. Not really. I am merely quoting the show... That is _'the question that must never be answered'_ , so."

     "Never to be answered," Sherlock mumbled as he also returned his attention to the show. "We shall see about that..."

     But Sophie heard that, and she shook her head. Of course he would say that. What else was she expecting?

     "Right," she said absently. "Good luck with that."

–

"And they say this show is British? Please..."

     Sophie let her head fall back and let out a quiet moan of pain. She felt physical pain whenever she heard that deep, grave voice overpowering the sound of the television.

     "Have you ever been to a theatre? Or even a cinema?"

     But Sherlock simply ignored her. He didn't even have the good grace of apoligising or looking as if he was sorry—which was not out of character for him at all. He simply continued, like there had been no interruptions.

     "Queen Elizabeth I never got married."

     Sophie gave a snort of laughter and used the cushion to hit Sherlock square in the chest. "Oh, shut it. You only know that because they mentioned _the virgin Queen_ earlier..."

     "That is not how I know it," Sherlock replied, promptly and defensively.

     "Oh yeah. You probably also took in consideration Ten's observation about how the real Queen of England would have not accepted his marriage proposal."

     Chancing a glance, Sophie noticed that Sherlock didn't seem about to reply. She tried to hold back a smile, but failed.

     "Holding onto that knowledge was neither important nor useful." And he was back.

     Shaking her head, Sophie decided that it was best if she didn't dispute for several reasons—the most notable one was that there was enough chatting as it was—so she let things slide with a simple, "whatever you say, Sherlock."

     But she had not heard the last of that yet. Only a handful of seconds had passed when...

     "Ten?"

     Once more, Sophie found herself inhaling deeply. Fixing her eyes on the screen, she clasped her hands together and began counting again.

     "One of these days," she said some several seconds later. "I will make you watch all Doctor Who serials... Ten. The Doctor's tenth incarnation."

     "Right. And how many incarnations are there?"

     "Bloody— why are you here, Sherlock?" Despite her blunt question, Sophie didn't sound mad. Or angry. Not even slightly aggravated. As a matter of fact, by then, Sophie had already resigned to the possibility that she was not going to catch a break. It simply was not going to happen.

     "Why aren't you with John?" She added, and her tone was still calm and collected.

     "Because John is out with Mary... how many?"

     A smile flourished on her lips. A somewhat wicked smile, but Sherlock couldn't tell, only she could.

     "Of course he is," she muttered to herself. Those two... she was going to kill them.

     "Technically speaking, there are Eleven Doctors," Sophie said in response to Sherlock's question. "But John Hurt there is the war Doctor, though he doesn't get a number nor calls like all the others nor calls himself a Doctor... so I suppose, in reality, there are twelve incarnations."

     "You suppose?"

     "Don't push it."

     Just because Sophie had resigned to the fact that she would have to watch the recording of the episode later—preferably when a certain consulting detective was not around—, that did not mean she had to put up with everything he did or said. She had not.

–

_'What do you make of the title?'_

     Somehow, Sophie had managed to get through seventy-something minutes without becoming a criminal and Sherlock was still perched up on her sofa.

     It had all been almost fun, if she was to be honest. If she ignored Sherlock's constant interruptions, his seemingly never ending questions and comments, deep down Sophie had enjoyed that evening. Of course, she would never admit to it aloud, but she was feeling rather cheerful on the inside for somehow, managing to make someone like Sherlock to sit down and watch something like Doctor Who—a show that, as remarkable as it is, requires a bit of willing suspension of disbelief, and she was not sure Sherlock would make it through five minutes before leaving amongst cries of _'preposterous'_ , _'outrageous'_ or anything slightly like it.

     Well, he did complain at first (quite a lot, in fact), that much she got right, but surprisingly enough, he did not leave. Though she would have liked it better to have watched the fiftieth anniversary special with a quieter company, it had been all right, given the circumstances...

_'Which title? There's two... "No more" and "Gallifrey falls".'_

     It's been a while since she last heard Sherlock's voice. If she was to make an educated guess, Sophie would say it's been almost five full minutes without–

     "No."

     Too soon, she thought bitterly to herself as she rolled her eyes.

     "No what, Sherlock?" Sophie asked, frustration seeping from her words.

     Then, before Sherlock could say anything, she heard it.

_'No, you see that's where everybody's wrong...'_

     Looking at the brunette beside him, Sherlock noticed she was suddenly paying extra attention to the screen. His lips curled in a smug half smirk.

     "It is but one title," Sherlock said at the precise same time that Tom Baker's voice came through the television's sound system: _'It's all one title. Gallifrey falls–'_

     "–no more."

     The look she gave him was so intense and quite menacing, but that didn't intimidate him. If anything, it almost turned his smirk into a grin.

     "Oh, come on," Sherlock said almost exasperated. "That was obvious."

     Then, instead of replying, Sophie simply grabbed one of the four edges of the squared cushion she'd been holding ever since the show had started and swung it, hitting Sherlock's face with all of her strength. Not that it really mattered, though, since she was using a soft cushion, but still, it felt good and she felt better afterwards.

–

"Well, that was quite... interesting," Sherlock said once the episode they've been watching ended.

     The credits were going but Sophie did not move nor gave any signs of being about to reach for the remote that sat on the coffee table in front of them and either change the channel or turn off the television.

     "Oh, yes," she said with a sigh. "Quite interesting indeed..."

     Then, Sherlock rose from the sofa and walked towards the windows. Sophie paid him no mind.

     "Lights are still out... seems like John hasn't returned," he commented as he pushed the curtains aside. Sophie simply hummed in response.

     "So," Sherlock said as he pushed the curtains closed once more and turned to face Sophie. "What else can we watch to pass the time? You said something about twelve incarnations of this doctor...?"

––

"Did you show Doctor Who to Sherlock?"

     Sophie had just returned home after spending her entire day at the Scotland Yard and was taking off her coat when she heard John's voice coming from somewhere behind her.

     Looking over her shoulder, Sophie found the man standing near one of the windows. She wasn't one bit surprised. Ever since John and Mary started to date, John's visits had become rather frequent, which was fine by Sophie since he was a pleasant company.

     "John," she said softly as she shrugged off her coat. "Hi. Didn't see you there..."

     John suddenly realised how blunt he had been and hurried to apologise. "Sorry for my lack of manners. Hi… How was your day?"

     "Quite busy," Sophie said with a smile as she made her way to the kitchen. "How about yours?"

     "Probably not as busy as yours," John replied with a chuckle.

     "I see... but you asked me if I showed Doctor Who to Sherlock." Sophie's voice carried out from the kitchen into the living room.

     Only a few days had passed since Sophie–and Sherlock–had watched the Fiftieth Anniversary of said show and while she hadn't exactly shown it to him (he had basically decided to watch it himself) she admitted to it. "I suppose I did. Why?"

     "Oh, nothing," he said almost dismissively.

     Sophie, who was just returning to the living room with two glasses of wine, frowned as she handed a glass to John.

     "I was just curious," he continued after accepting the drink from the brunette. "Because he's been watching the show for days now..."

     Sophie raised her eyebrows in surprise. "Is that so?"

     "Yes," said John with a short nod. "I noticed it Sunday and when I asked him what was he up to the other day, he said something about finding the answer to the first question? I tried asking what the hell was he talking about but he had already turned his attention to the telly and was not really listening. Not anymore."

     Oh, John... Sophie wanted to apologise to John and explain what Sherlock was trying to do but she couldn't–she was trying very hard not to spill the little bit of wine she had just sipped from her glass.

     She should've known that Sherlock would try to find the answer to "the question that must never be answered". It was too big of a challenge for him to simply let go. Oh, Sherlock...

     She was just breathing normally after the internal fit of giggling she had tried very hard to suppress when the door of her flat was pushed open and no one other than Sherlock Holmes waltzed inside.

     "John," he said gravely as he noticed his flat-mate sitting on the couch. "I figured you'd be here... Lestrade called. There's been a murder. Shall we?"

     There was something about Sherlock's demeanor that made Sophie and John exchange a look. He sounded dead serious.

     "Uh– Sherlock," John began as he looked at the man by the door. He was just about to question if it was a good idea for him to go visiting crime scenes when he had clearly spent, what– four days doing anything but watching television?

     He certainly didn't think it was a good idea and was ready to argue about that, also about the fact that he had plans for the night–which was basically a reservation at the _La Boheme_ for him and Mary and certainly _did_ _not_ include crime scenes and dead bodies–when Sherlock spoke again, although this time, he talked to Sophie.

     "Oh, and about that question that must never be answered," he said as casual as it was humanly possible.

     Something about the way his blue eyes were staring at her dark ones rather intently made her furrow her eyebrows softly. Sophie was just trying to figure out what was that _something_ when the corners of his mouth pulled and a half smile of sorts appeared on his face. "I happen to know the answer..."

     Sophie's eyes widened. "What?"

     But Sherlock said nothing in response. He simply watched the way her eyes displayed surprise, then incredulity and at last, disbelief which made him grin.

     "You're lying," Sophie said blankly. It wasn't possible. He couldn't know! Could he?

     "Am I?" It had sounded a lot like a question, but when Sophie's brain registered, it sounded more like a bluff he so desperately wanted her to call. But Sophie didn't think Sherlock was bluffing–that didn't sound like him at all. _No._

     And Sherlock may have noticed that she had reached that conclusion for he simply flashed her his most smug smirk before turning the collar of his coat up and calling for John again.

     For a moment or two, Sophie simply sat there, rooted to the spot. No. That was just _not_ possible. He couldn't have had figured it out. Hell, he couldn't have even watched every episode there is in such little time! But hell, did he sound sure of himself...

     Then, moving faster than she ever believed it was possible, Sophie placed her wine glass on the coffee table, grabbed the coat she had placed on the arm of her sofa and bolted to the door, leaving a rather dumbfounded John all alone in her living room, staring at the open door.

     "SHERLOCK HOLMES, COME BACK HERE THIS INSTANT! WHAT THE HELL DO YOU MEAN YOU KNOW THE ANSWER?! SHERLOCK!"

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading


End file.
